Expect A Lot From This Story
by smiththefifth
Summary: Introductions first, then? My name is Draco Malfoy and I am a rentboy. Because clichés are fun and reality is vastly overrated.
1. Kill Your Friends

**warnings: **slash, first person, present tense narrative, language, prostitution, chest waxing, the word 'fisting' used generously, faux boundary-baiting tailored for the fanfiction guidelines.

**a/n **but really though, why not?

**Expect A Lot From This Story – Kill Your Friends **

Can we talk about anal fisting? I've never had a problem with going above and beyond the idea of 'normal'. You don't get exiled from the Wizarding London at the age of seventeen by toeing the line. Or whatever the proper cliché expression is. No, you do that by living on the extremest side of things.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Anal fisting.

I feel a pang of regret every time I have to bypass that particular check box on my list of services. Then the feeling melts into a misguided dream in which I have a twat.

There's this girl, she's called Tessa and she's one of my few friends in the agency. When she'd finally stretched herself enough to fit her tiny fist in there she called me and we had a bit of a celebration.

It didn't take long to discover that the real battle isn't getting the hand in, rather, it's in getting the thing back out. No one bothers to mention the black hole suction going on up there but I'd like to change that. Consider this an official warning.

Forgive me for getting side tracked, but maybe that's the first thing you should know about what I do. You come to me with rumours that you've picked up on the streets and misconceptions fed to you by Hollywood. The reality of it all is a bit different.

Not all the girls have vaginas the size of a hallway but having a bit of stretch to it isn't at all a bad thing.

For a male, though, it's not so straightforward. I figure the people who can tick the 'yes' box under anal fisting either have a much higher pain tolerance than myself or are descendant from train tunnels.

Hello and good morning. My name is Draco Malfoy and I'm a rent boy.

* * *

_'Knock, knock, knock' _

Actually it isn't so much a knocking sound as it is an eardrum splitting clanging noise. Acrylic nails on a metallic door.

Enter Astoria Greengrass. Resident best friend and faithful alarm clock. We used to be engaged but then I became a whore.

Isn't that always how it goes?

"Draco, for fucks sake, let me in!" she screams. She now makes up for our broken engagement by showing up to my flat in the wee hours of the morning. Used to bring coffee and assorted pastries, doesn't anymore. The harpy.

I can tell you how this exchange is going to pan out before I even extricate myself from the sheets.

First, I'll eventually manage to crawl to the door. Upon opening said door the conversation will go as follows:

Me: "What the hell do you want?" I'll ask, all bleary eyed and vulnerable.

Her: "To save your lazy arse," she'll say, ever the classy aristocrat.

Perhaps she'll lift a hand to slap the back of my head, maybe shoot a stinging hex at me. Then she'll make herself right at home on my sofa, flicking her wand around like she's Glinda the Good Witch.

Me: "Who do you think you are, Glinda the Good Fucking Witch?"

Her: "Who?"

She doesn't watch Muggle telly much. The way she has with cleaning spells though, I never complain. Next I'll make coffee with the really expensive imported beans a client gave me last time she was in town. She will have one cup and I'll drink the other seven. Idle chit chat, the latest gossip from the pureblood community until we finally get to the point of her visit.

Her: "Are you working tonight?" She used to be shy about asking, fidgeting about, eyes on the floor. Now she doesn't care. Glares, even.

Me: Without batting an eye I'll answer, "Of course." Her perfect nonchalant mask will slip just a little and my heart will break just the tiniest bit.

Awkward silence will ensue. I'll make breakfast. Eggs on toast if I'm hungry, cappuccino and a chocolate biscuit if I'm not. She won't eat anything in case my occupation is communicable though food.

Eventually the tension will get to be too much. She will announce that she has work in a few minutes. A quick wave, air kisses and the crack of Disapparation.

It's the same every morning, me pretending that one day she'll be okay with what I do and her pretending that one day I'll stop doing it. It's just a little game we play. What can I say, I'm a sucker for routine.

Armed with this knowledge, I pull myself out of bed and drag my feet to the door. Before I can even get a word in to start our daily dialogue, she forces the door the rest of the way open and hugs me. No announcement of intentions, just wraps her arms around my shoulders like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Good morning, Draco darling," she chirps.

It should be said that I do not use the word 'chirps' lightly. I hate forced diversity even when it comes to language but she honestly chirped. Sounded like a bloody song bird, all happy and cheerful.

How hateful.

"Astoria," I say, apprehensive but willing to fall into our normal routine just the same.

"Your mother requests your presence at Malfoy Manor for afternoon tea the saturday after next." She perches herself on my kitchen counter, wand nowhere in sight but instead clutching a polystyrene cup. Camomile tea, I'd guess, going by the scent.

Well. This is different.

You see, I can count the number of times I have been invited to the Manor since my mother was informed of my occupation on one hand. Mostly because I've only been invited back once. My father passed and Miss Manners would never allow the son to miss the reading of the will.

Moving out of the Manor, she could handle. Leaving Wizarding London, that was fine. Integrating myself into the Muggle world, she understood. Fucking for money, however, she simply could not cope.

Not that I'm offended by this, I understand. But I'm sure you can see why this out of the blue invitation might have. Thrown me.

"Excuse me?" I say, still fully convinced that this is a dream.

"If that time doesn't work she will owl you with three other possible dates." She crosses her legs and brushes imaginary lint away from her hemline. She always look impeccable, all sweet smiles, blonde ringlets and blue eyes. It almost makes me wish I'd stuck it out with her, made a go of the whole marriage thing.

Almost.

Because she has a way with persuasion, I turn around and busy myself with making coffee. There is no way in hell I'll ever go back, no matter what she says. Absolutely not.

"What are you doing?" she asks. I'm assuming she asks because the stupid coffee machine isn't cooperating, choosing instead to make a terrible mess of things. I can't get the filter to fit and the coffee grounds are spilling everywhere. Defeated by an appliance, I give up and push it into the sink.

"I'm going to take a shower," I announce. She huffs and mumbles something about being in the front room.

The scent of her perfume lingers in the air after she's gone. Cashmere and a soft hint of lilies. That's really all it takes, she's already won.

"Aster," I call into the other room. "Let me get my diary, I'm sure saturday after next will be fine."

As expected, she comes bounding back into the kitchen and hugs me. Again. She has her little nose buried into the crock of my neck for a minute before pulling back.

"Draco. Darling," she says, going from ecstatic to punishing in two point five. "You reek of sweat and alcohol. Couldn't you have showered first?"

* * *

Astoria is a lovely girl but she's my horrid habit, the one part of the Wizarding world that I can't give up. After I told her that I was a whore I was sure she would never speak to me again but not two weeks later she was back at my flat like nothing had changed.

Two months ago, almost to the day.

That morning I woke up to an incessant buzzing noise permeating my REM state.

At first I was sure it was a byproduct of the pounding between my temples. I rolled over and pulled the duvet over my head in an effort to ignore it. I'd had three appointments the day before and had another that evening, I needed my beauty sleep.

The buzzing persisted. Terrified that it was a client or god forbid, my agent, I flung the sheets off and dashed to the door, tripping over stray laundry and askew furnishings.

There she was, perfectly framed in the intercom screen.

"Did you need something?" I asked into the speaker.

"Let me in." I glanced around the flat. After an incall the night before there were condom wrappers, butt plugs and a red satin corset strewn around for the world to see.

Well, that wasn't good.

"Er, right. I'll buzz you up," I said before running off, hiding the things I could, begging that she wouldn't notice the things I couldn't. Shoving the last few wrappers into the pocket of my robe, I unlocked the deadbolt and left the door open for her.

"Draco. I've missed you," she said by way of greeting.

"Astoria. Would you like coffee, tea?" Between the two of us, I wasn't sure who was more nervous.

"No, thank you." She smiled. Manners beat nerves every time. Worried eyes flitted around and, as if balancing on a tightrope, she ventured further into the room.

"Right." I nodded and followed her, trying my best to heard her into one of the less incriminating areas of the flat. "So, what brings you to my humble abode? Surely it wasn't because you missed little old me."

"Must you?" she asked, I could only assume in reference to my general sarcastic nature. I shrugged and ushered her to the sofa, taking a seat next to her. "I just wanted to check on you. Talk about a few things." She looked so serious, like when Hubble left Katie.

'She was the only one who believed in him, she followed him to California. How could he do that to her.' That kind of serious.

"I'll make some coffee then, shall I?" Her hand clamped down on my thigh, manicured fingernails digging into my skin.

"No. We need to talk, Draco. Is it because of your father? The Dark Lord?"

"No, Astoria. God, no."

"Then why?" Hurt and distrust bled through her tone. In telling her the truth I figured there were only a few possible outcomes:

She chucks me instantly

She doesn't chuck me but the friendship becomes dysfunctional as a result of one of us being a whore

She's okay with it and offers to join in, ends up making better money than I do

She's okay with it and things continue as normal.

Obviously these range from probable to 'no way' to 'really, no fucking way' and the last seemingly impossible. Ah, well. In for a Knut in for a Galleon, as they say.

"I enjoy what I do, Aster," Moisture built up in the inside corners of her eyes."You know I like sex," I said carefully. Her head jerked up and down. Yes she did, no she didn't want to vocalise her acknowledgement. Endearing, another quality commonly attached to her name.

"Finding a decent job in London is next to impossible. This pays better than a temp job or office position."

"If it's about money, you could come help me run the store," she reasoned.

Quick history lesson: Not long after we separated she opened a fashion boutique, a wedding fashion boutique. I didn't think my poor heart could take the irony of working in such a place with my ex fiance.

"Working there would hardly cover my rent, let alone my other expenses," I explained.

"Snob," she retorted. "Are prostitutes even allowed to be snobs?" I shrugged. It was practically a job requirement at this level, but I didn't think that would help the situation.

"Sometimes it isn't about having a reason to do something. It's about not have a good reason not to do it."

After several minutes spent bickering about how ironclad my logic was (or wasn't, as was her position) we got to the actual importance of her visit.

"Are you being safe?" she asked. "You're practically a vector for disease, the job you do, the number of people you see. No on is safe these days, you know but surely you know that some are more at risk than others. It's important to take all the necessary precautions." She trailed off, eyes catching on the pair of knickers hanging off the back corner of the couch.

"Well, that's very kind of you." I said, drawing her attention away from the offending sight (there was just no way to explain away that one). "With everything available these days, vaccinations, free clinics, there really is no need to worry."

"But sometimes that isn't enough," she insisted. "Maybe a trip to St. Mungos-"

"Please, Astoria, relax," I cut her off, "I've already gotten my flu shot."

But that was then, this is now. And now I have two working girls sitting in my kitchen. Tessa and a friend of hers called Angel. Honestly, the tacky names these days.

They've been here for hours, flipping through shiny porn magazines and drinking my good champagne. I've been studiously avoiding them, waxing my chest and organising my underwear drawer.

"Blake," Tessa calls. She, like many people in Muggle London, knows me only by a false name. "Get your scrawny white arse out here!" I call back that I'm busy, coaxing wax residue off with baby oil. That isn't something to be interrupted. "I'll do it for you," she reasons.

I walk out and hand her the flannel. She paws at my chest while Angel explains her predicament.

"See," she says, holding out the magazine for my perusal. "Is it just me or can all the girls in these magazines do it." I flip through the pages and nod, but who even knows what she's talking about. Seems about as bright as a mountain troll.

Exponentially prettier though, in a plastic kind of way.

"Angel is very into fisting these days," Tessa explains. And they say anal is the new black.

"According to all the manuals, if you just keep at it, it will just happen." She sighs wistfully. Our profession is very strange at times. "But it's not exactly romantic, is it? Digging away at my fluffy bits with oiled up fingers for hours on end. My boyfriend would never put it up with that."

She says this and they both turn to stare at me.

Three guesses as to how the rest of my afternoon is spent.

I wash my hands several dozen times after they leave. Partly because I find womanly juices slightly revolting and partly because tomorrow I will be expected to come into physical contact with both my female best friend and my mother. I'm nothing if not polite.

* * *

Afternoon tea at one, last minute session at six. It will be a tight fit, but I'm sure I can manage. I've always excelled at dressing in layers. Black boxer briefs, designer jeans, tailored shirt, Versace leather jacket.

Over that I've managed to pull on dress robes in a lovely shade of green. I can't remember where they came from but they look expensive, silver piping and emerald accents. It isn't a particularly comfortable fit but it could always be worse.

My foray into S&M, for instance. By comparison, this is much better.

Astoria is already here, has been for over two hours. One of which she spent griping about my lack of Floo service the other spent exploring my closet. God help me.

"What's this for?" she asks, holding up a set of beads.

I glance up and cringe. "Er, nothing. Put it down, please."

As much as it pains me, I'll have to do my makeup now. Astoria will poke fun and oh, the disdainful looks my mother will give me, but there really is no other option. I'm rubbish at applying mascara in a moving vehicle. Groaning, I make my way into the bathroom.

My cosmetics sit on a shelf of their own. Pencils, powders, creams, moisturisers. If a client was willing to settle for mediocre looks and half-arsed skill with a makeup brush they would stick it out with their spouses, wouldn't they? They are paying for absolute perfection. Nothing too over the top, I am still male after all. But perfect. Porcelain.

By the time I finish Astoria has wondered out of the bedroom. I find her sitting on the floor of my living room with the contents of my bag dumped out before her. Owlish eyes peer up at me. I chew at my lip and do my best to avoid her gaze.

"Draco, what is this?" she asks, a ball gag dangling between her thumb and forefinger.

"Um, that's not important." She continues to pick at the various items taking up residence on my floor. The questions on the tip of her tongue don't go away so I figure I might as well explain.

"Lube and condoms, standard tools of the trade."

"What's the difference," she asks, gesturing to the red wrappers and black.

"Latex and polyurethane. Some people have allergies." She nods. "Spare underwear, boxers and briefs, depending upon the taste of the client. Sewing kit for stray thread or tears, chapstick and lipgloss."

"Gloss?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Men like glossy lips, doesn't take a genius to figure out why." I shrug and add, "Women prefer chapstick." Like that makes it any better. "Compact and mascara for touchups, men and women's deodorant, professionals never let the client leave smelling of the opposite sex."

"Professional?" she interrupts with a snort.

"Yes, professional. I'm educated and have good breeding so I'm expensive. A high class escort. The agency finds my clients and get forty precent of anything I make, excluding tips and travel expenses." It's extremely awkward, explaining it to her. My job has always been an elephant in the room, strictly off limits.

She nods again and I continue. "Tissues, moist towelettes, spoon."

"Why a spoon?"

"You never know when you'll need one." I shrug off the question because it's easier that way. "Then keys bankcard and mobile," I finish.

"And this?" she questions, holding up a pair of tiny metal objects.

"Um, nipple clamps," I murmur, snatching them away from her and shoving them back into the bag.

Sometimes I feel for female prostitutes. According to all the fashion magazines, small handbags are in this season. But you try fitting all of that in a Fendi baguette. For males, no matter the season, the bigger the bag (manpurse, what have you) the less blatantly homosexual. Before I can explain this to her she stands, hand covering her mouth, and runs off the the loo.

That could have gone better.

* * *

By the time she's done emptying the contents of her stomach into my toilet we're running late. Lovely, I hate being late. Every time I'm late for an appointment I have to call the agency. They ring the client to let them know. It lowers my pay from the client and raises the cut I give to the agency. It's a fairly unpleasant experience to say the least.

"Are you sure the anti apparition wards will allow me entrance?" I ask, fidgeting as we make our way to our apparition point.

"Yes, Draco," Astoria says, clearly still miffed about earlier. I don't know why, it's not as if I forced her to look in the bag. As I'm about to vocalise my objection to her attitude, she stops short and disappears with a crack. Showoff.

I Disapparate after her.

* * *

"Draco, darling," my mother calls as we make our way onto the west side patio.

"Mother," I greet. She and Astoria exchange air kisses. If I was feeling a bit braver I might mention the sexually transmitted diseases that can be exchanged through oral contact. But I don't, for fear that one of them would point out that I would know. And who knows, maybe my occupation has slipped my mothers mind. One can only hope.

Also, I'm a Slytherin. What do you expect?

My mind is digging through the backlog of pureblood etiquette that I haven't quite managed to forget and as far as I can remember we are not allowed to dine outside. Does that extend to afternoon tea, as well? I couldn't tell you so I just stand next to Astoria and wait for someone to tell me.

After years spent in the company of Muggles the tingle of the warming charm seems more potent, painful almost. Or maybe that's just the ten layers of clothing I have on, either way.

Time drags by and I consider the prospects of house-elf bowling or hanging myself, just to pass the time. Survival instinct wins out in the end.

"Can I have one of the elves take your bag for you, Draco?" my mother asks.

"Oh, you wouldn't want to put the poor dears through that, Narcissa," Astoria quips.

"No. Thank you, Mother. But I'd rather like to hang on to this," I say and cling to the shoulder strap a little tighter. I have a feeling that the rest of the afternoon will differ only slightly from that exchange.

Mother leads us inside to the west wing sun room. Tea service is already set up, teeming with arduous warming charms.

As we sit they embark on a conversation about some handbag and rampant consumerism.

"It's not enough for us to just want a purse anymore, is it?" Astoria says, shaking her head. "We have to lust after it, feel sexual satisfaction from the purchase."

My mother chuckles and mentions something about Astoria's gourmet coffee intake. Oh, the hypocrisy.

Personally, I've never equated lust to handbags. But I'm male, maybe I'm missing something. I do like shopping though. Relationships are unstable. An affair with your wardrobe, though. That's forever. Or at least until the media deems your clothing 'last season' and the cycle starts all over.

After a while I decide it might be best to pay attention to the conversation mostly because I hear someone say, "And what do you think about that, Draco?"

As a high class escort part of what you're paying for is my skill as a conversationalist. I've discussed all manner of topics from Nietzsche and Goethe to Florentine architecture. All of my skills in this area dissipate as soon as I'm invited into their conversation.

"Excuse me?" I manage.

"Astoria and I were just discussing the possibility of your business extending into our world." Actually, I'm very impressed. She managed to make 'your business' sound not like an insult but a legitimate venture while at the same time wrapping the words in invisible air quotes. And they wonder where I get it.

"I don't think so, Mother. It's a lovely idea but I'm really quite busy with the clients I have now and the agency might have some trouble with the idea." Firm but vague, to the point without being offensive. And that's why I'm expensive.

"On a trail basis, then. One night, fifteen hundred Galleons." It doesn't matter the experience I have expecting the unexpected, I can't keep the disbelief off my face.

"Are you my pimp now, Mother?"

"Of course not," she scoffs.

"I've done some digging into your enterprise and you seem to specialise in exactly what it is the girl in question is looking for."

"And what is that?" I ask, dreading the answer. There are quite a few things that I specialise in. The idea that my mother has 'done some digging around' in anything is terrifying.

"A boyfriend for hire. The daughter of a friend of a friend is a chronic workaholic," Astoria supplies. "She has to attend a wedding and would like to take a boyfriend to show off to the family."

"She doesn't have time to find one on such short notice and that's where you and your specific talents come in to play," my mother finishes.

Is it just me or is she playing the role of pimp down to the letter? Finding clients, setting up dates without my knowledge, bullying me into doing it. Sounds like a pimp to me. It brings back such pleasant memories.

"And who is this prospective client?" I ask slash spit. (An aside, spitting is rude. But forcing grown adults back into the caustic world of their childhood is also rude. I feel justly warranted.)

"Her name is Emeline Zeigler. She occupies a minor position in the Ministry and works far more than the position demands. Half blood, but what can you do?" Her lip curls slightly in mock disdain. Even after everything that's happened it's comforting that some things never change.

"What will the evening entail? Schmoozing with all manner Ministry folk and a quick shag in the coat closet?" Since that's usually what the Boyfriend Experience consists of and I figure the Wizarding version can't be so different.

"A proper francophone wedding, actually. As for the, ahem, shagging portion of the evening, I'll leave it up to the client to work out the specifics of where and how." Sometimes, I really do love my mother.

"When?" I ask, choosing to ignore the coy smile both she and Astoria were wearing. Evil, the both of them.

"The last weekend of the month." I don't know why people can't just give a date, they have to be all vague about it. I don't want to have to solve a logic puzzle every time I have an appointment. The thirtieth of this month, is that so much to ask?

I pull my diary out of my bag and check to make sure I don't have anything outstanding appointments. I don't. I was planning to take the weekend off. Spa day, expensive espresso and a night out dancing. Maybe shag someone without charging, if the moment leant itself. As I jot down her name, all visions of sex, no strings attached, shatter.

C'est la vie.

"Who is the lucky bride?" I ask some time later. We'd reached the small talk portion of the afternoon. Another fifteen minutes before I can excuse myself and listening to them discuss handbags and dresses is getting deathly dull.

Mother busies herself with the sugar dish and Astoria looks everywhere but at me. Finally, my mother clears her throat to answer.

"Gabrielle Delacour."


	2. As You Like It

**a/n **don't forget to enable your spam filters because you just never know.

**Expect A Lot From This Story - As You Like It**

"I have a client, he wants to pee on you," my agent, Hilary, says over the phone. Her tone would indicate that this is the most normal thing in the world. She's always like that though, bland no matter the circumstance.

It's been a bit dry, work wise, for a while so the call throws me. I've been lounging around for days, knee deep in gossip magazines (Pick Me Up, definitely my favourite) and Neruda poetry. Yes, my interests are teasingly diverse.

"No." Degradation just doesn't do it for me. I had quite enough of that in my childhood, thanks. Also that cannot be hygienically safe.

"Darling, don't be such a prude." Really, Hilary, really? "He wants you to enjoy it."

Read: he wants you to make appreciative noises as he does it.

"Think of it like a bath." Actually, I won't think of it at all, thanks.

"Send him to someone else." I flip the glossy magazine page and glance over the pictures that accompany the "My Baby Pushed Out My Tumour" story.

"He only wants you, he saw your pictures on the website." This is not saying much. There are a limited number of male prostitutes within the company and most of them are only available nights and weekends. Me, I'm full time.

"Who is this man, this connoisseur of watersport?"

"He's a Nigerian prince." The strange thing is I can't tell if she's serious. That icicle -up-her-arse voice lacks any and all inflection.

"I thought those only existed in spam email."

"Mm, so will you do it?" she asks, completely ignoring my well-executed joke.

We double the price and I finally give in. I still don't know if he's actual royalty or not which, to be honest, is half the reason I agreed.

Maybe he'll wear a tiara.

I hang up and begin the three-act primping and fluffing routine involved with these things. This time it's a bit disheartening. I should just go as is. Jeans and a t-shirt that at one time was bedazzled with a rhinestone penis. Now it's just faded black and a little too tight.

Before I can talk myself into or out of this terrible decision, the phone rings. It's like she's psychic. I snatch it up and bark, "Hilary, what?"

"Draco? This is your mother," she greets, all business professional. I try to hide the involuntary groan. I am not successful.

"Mother, er, hello. How can I help you?" Terrible question, really. Never leads to anything positive.

"Are you free tomorrow afternoon? Astoria would like to take you to Diagon Alley to get you fitted for robes. Since you've proven that you are no longer capable of dressing yourself." Subtle, Mother. My robes were quite dated, you are correct. Thank you for that.

A healthy dose of fidgeting and awkward conversation ensues. For the second time in a one hour period, I give in. Astoria will be here tomorrow afternoon to whisk me back to the nest. I'm going soft. Must work on this.

But enough of that, back to the task at hand. I am about to take a bath in urine. This day cannot get any better.

I stumble into one of my tailored suits, throw on some shoes and I'm out the door. I hail a cab and I'm on my way.

While we're here let's take a moment to dash a few more of your rent boy fantasies. Look around, the world is full of little girls in hooker boots and grandmas in on Victoria's Secret. Your best bet to find an escort is to look for the people in designer suits.

As the cab approaches the hotel I take a minute to glance through the glass doors. I like to find the lifts before I enter the building. It wouldn't do to loiter in the lobby looking lost so if you can't find the lifts veer off to a hallways. Gather yourself and go from there.

I'm lucky today. The lifts are in plain sight, just to the right of reception. Once I've paid the cabbie I'm through the doors and on my way to the room. Women walk more quickly than men, something about the heels, I'd say so I saunter through the lobby, spare a nod to reception and let the elevator doors close behind me.

Once successfully behind the lift doors I take out my mobile and call the agency. For safety we call once we arrive and after we've left. Standard procedure. If you're taking notes, the agency call is also a good time to confirm the room number, never trust yourself to remember.

Safely hidden behind the metal doors, I take a minute to check myself in a mirror. It wouldn't do to show up disheveled or out of breath.

A quick, firm knock on the door. The man on the other side does indeed look like a Nigerian prince. Well, either that or a skinny basketball player who enjoys the touch of robes to his skin.

I have to remind myself several times not to make any of the jokes that spring to mind.

"Hello, lovely to meet you," I say.

"Hello," he returns stiffly. Oh heavens, he even sounds Nigerian.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," I continue, even though I'm bang on time. You can see it in his face and the way his hands twitch. He's been waiting, counting the hours, minutes, seconds until I arrived.

"Can I take your coat?" Of course, Jeeves. I smile from ear to ear and try my best not to laugh. Over the years I've found the best way to defeat the nerves is to smile a lot. Forced cheerful conversation, a product of a childhood spent in pureblood school.

They always told me I would use the knowledge someday. Admittedly, they probably didn't figure it would be in this capacity.

As I hand him my coat he hands me the envelope. The handoff is awkward but I suppose I've had worse.

In fact, did you know that in America even the classiest of whores take the money at the end of the session. This is also a country in which wearing expensive lingerie peeking over the top of your jeans is considered sexy. God save us all.

I tuck the money away and he offers me a drink. It's incredibly rude not to accept but it's against policy to drink on the job. Worry not, they're usually too impatient for it to matter.

I have sparkling water and he has a beer. Strange, I always thought royalty would have a finer taste in beverages but I suppose it's better to fill the bladder.

Time drags, stilted conversation takes place, I smile some more. He's nervous, it's almost endearing. But then I remember that he's about to piss on me.

Less endearing.

Finally it's time to do the deed. He runs the bath while I divest myself of clothing and work to strip him from the waist down. I kneel in the tub and he turns around, to mentally prepare himself for this grand exodus I would assume.

He turns back and straddles the tub. This time I mentally prepare myself.

Oh, god.

Nothing happens.

After a few minutes of this the water goes cold. I pull my knees to my chest and ask him if everything is alright. He promises that it is.

That voice again, oh my.

"I can't," he says finally. "Too hard." Which is weird, we haven't done anything and this room is freezing.

"Think of something terribly unsexy," I prod. I would really like to be done with this, please.

"Like what?" His voice cracks with frustration.

Your voice, for one. Unfortunately, I know better than to actually say this.

Having sex with your wife, missionary position for the purpose of procreation. Another suggestion I know better than to voice.

The number of people you've fraudulently promised to make millionaires.

The idea of global warming and the probability that it will end in the apocalypse. Can Al Gore ever save us?

Oh, this is actually quite fun.

"Blake, help me," he moans. I slosh around and make to get out.

"Did you want me to-"

"No!" He takes a hand off of his cock and holds it in front of me like a crossing guard. Because suddenly we're in primary school again. "I can't look at you. It turns me on. I can't look away because then I think about you and that turns me on."

Ah, well. Isn't that just so sweet. One of the less creepy compliments I've received on the job.

"Your mother," I suggest. He makes what I decide to be an affirmative noise. "Taking you underwear shopping. When you are thirty-five years of age."

The first trickle of warm yellow lands on my chest and drips down into the icy bathwater. I try not to gag. There are enough repulsive bodily fluids dancing off my skin as it is.

* * *

At the end of the session, I'm in the shower making a valiant attempt to wash the grit and shame off my body. The prince left the room some time ago. Hopefully he's seen to just leave so I don't have to face him.

"Blake," he calls with a soft knock on the shower door.

The watersport gods are clearly not on my side today.

"Yes?"

"I have to, you know. Again. Do you think we could go again?"

Under normal circumstances he could call the agency and get an extension. Give me the money upfront and things could continue.

Not today. So I tell him.

"Not today."

Once that awkward little exchange ends I'm out the door. A quick wave to the reception desk and I get the hell out of dodge.

I call the agency. I remind Hilary to feel free not to call me next time and she reminds me to deposit her cut of the fee into her account by the end of the day. Fine. Whatever.

Then I do what I always do after a bad day at work. Hit number two on speed dial and recount the details of the appointment verbatim.

* * *

"I hope that whoever he's with now is fat." Ah, words to live by. So I tell him.

"Words to live by. Cheers, Dov." And I take a sip from my beer. After today I'm not really in the mood, terrible amber-coloured flashbacks. But Dov was here first so there you go. Beer.

This is speed dial number two, by the way. Dov Wasserstein, one of my closest friends and the only person who knows all the ins and outs of what I do. After our phone call he insisted that we meet so I could tell him the story again, with hand gestures and diagrams if necessary. The third time it started to get very old and very boring. Not quite up to par with the usual tales I regale him with.

So he moved on and, since he's Dov, he's convalescing.

It's been six months since he broke up with his last boyfriend, hence the truly A plus level insults going on here. My general policy is that it takes the length of time you were together for you to get over a person.

Meaning that Dov should have been over this boy oh, five months ago.

I would mention this to him this but it's his turn to pay and I have another policy that says never agitate the person taking care of the tab. So I nod sagely and let him vent. Sometimes throw my own two cents in.

"I hope whoever he's with has a terrible set of in-laws." What can I say, my mother has been on my mind since 'the Incident'. And it really is therapeutic. Feeling better already.

"That's good." He nods in appreciation. For me, it's been two months almost to the day. The Ex, as he is now known, couldn't cope with the job. Not his fault but Slytherins are unappologetic in their spitefulness.

Also, I was upset at the time. Sometimes it still stings.

Tell anyone and you die.

Slowly. Painfully. Think dull hedge clippers, the Psycho music playing in the background.

He downs the rest of his pint, slams it on the table. "No, not fat. Unforgivably stupid." There's an insult on the tip of my tongue but I refrain. See policy number two.

"Bad in-laws and smells funny." At this point he starts on my drink. It's practically untouched but I'm still offended. The principal of the thing and all. The policy keeps me from vocalising the complaint.

"Quite the insult coming from you, Sir Bathes A Lot." I shrug. I like to be clean and my job makes constant upkeep a must. He already knows this, moves on quickly. "Stupid and erectile-y dysfunctional."

"I don't think that's a word," I inform him. He slurps at my drink. Policy number two isn't always concrete, you understand. He should be thankful, that was nothing compared to my usual standard for scathing commentary.

More slurping. Dov code for not thankful in the least.

"I could be wrong." I couldn't. "Plus, little blue pills," I remind him.

"Incurable erectile dysfunction," he amends.

"I believe they have a word for that." He glares, I smile gleefully. "Old."

If this does not please him he doesn't show it, and it doesn't deter the methodic way he's venturing toward the bottom of my glass. "Senile, too," he says from behind the rim.

"He still has to be stupid, yeah?" I check.

He nods enthusiastically. The slurping stops so he can go into detail about the kind of stupidity the new boyfriend will exhibit.

Not only intellectually challenged but so enamoured with the sound of his own voice that he can't ever shut up, in case you were wondering. Oh, you weren't? Neither was I.

Status of my drink: empty.

He rubs his stomach like a pencil-thin Buddha and contemplates going back inside the grimy gastropub. Decides against it.

"Stupid, incurable erectile dysfunction and vertically challenged" At least, I think this is what he's trying to say. Those words have more syllables than he can manage at this level of inebriation. Factoring the previous confusion with modifiers, we can infer that Dov's favourite drunken pastime is making English his bitch.

What can I say, he was really hot when I met him.

"That's rather rude," I tell him. "You're not all that far from the Earths crust yourself."

Status of Policy Number Two: forgotten.

He glares but doesn't refute the comment. On the plus side, he never gets dizzy from standing up.

"Bad in-laws and terrible in bed." I've always been talented with the subtle segue.

"Terrible in bed, now we're getting to the heart of it," he says.

"Squeamish about rimming," I decide.

"He was into that?" Elbow on the table, chin in hand, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas.

Except that despite the flat ironed hair and surgically altered nose, he's Jewish. Maybe not religiously, but certainly ethnically. Perhaps like a kid Hanukkah. My knowledge of the whole ritual is lacking so if I'm wrong about the excitement levels involved, feel free to not correct me.

I'm getting side tracked. I apologise. We were about to talk about rimming, let's do that.

"Oh, yeah. I never told you about that?" He shakes his head, looks heartbroken. What else could I do, I gave him the full dirt, so to speak.

I have no problem with rimming. After a good scrub with soap and hot water it can be quite enjoyable. Like trying to push your way through pursed lips, convincing stubborn muscles to part like the Red Sea for Moses. The very tip of your tongue ventures further there than anywhere else. It's like an epic adventure.

"Did you take pictures," he asks.

"No," I answer. Before I can suggest that the internet was created for just that purpose he interrupts.

"I can't believe you!" he cries, affronted. I shrug and tear at the corner of my beer mat.

"You miss him, huh?"

"Yeah." Dov adjusts his pants, beer occupying a good two-thirds of his stomach. "I've had enough. Let's go home." He means mine, by the way. His own still reminds him of his ex.

Five months later. There really are no words.

"We'll take a bath," I say, already excited at the prospect. I like having another person to wash the backs of my knees and between my shoulder blades. His eyes do that sparkling thing again so I tell him, "No, you can't piss on me."

"You heartless bitch," he says, but he's smiling so I know he doesn't mean it. Well, he doesn't mean it to be an insult. This time I glare, get up and put my coat on.

"Forget the bath. I'm going straight to bed."

"Liar."

Yeah.

* * *

London is an amazing city, a beautiful city. A rude, arrogant and often dirty city. London and I are alike in that respect. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Dov wasn't kidding, I really do bathe numerous times a day. And always carry a bit of scent with me, I like citrus best.

The anonymity, though, is perhaps my favourite part of London. Who you really are, your personality flaws and past transgressions are blurred away by the masses, lost in the sea of people forever.

Or at least until the past comes knocking at your door. And because I'm me, of course the past comes dressed in bright orange construction robes, carrying three times my body weight in brick and mortar.

Oh, yes. There are strange men in my living room, building what looks to be a bright red obelisk but what I'm told is supposed to be a Floo.

You may be asking yourself, did Draco ask his mother to barge in and build a useless Wizarding invention in his flat?

No, no he did not.

And that brick absolutely does not go with the existing colour scheme of the room. Which, admittedly, is not very cohesive anyway. Think Laura Ashley meets Peter Max in Tahiti, where they decide to go on an acid trip together. But the antiquarian brick doesn't exactly scream of anything this century either.

Case in point, my mother is plotting my demise.

Remind me of this in the future. When my mother invites me over under the pretence of familial obligation, begin evasive manoeuvres immediately.

"Draco, please tell me you have something besides alcohol in that fridge of yours. I'm starved," Dov says as he emerges from my bedroom.

I grumble something in response and toss a jar of pitted olives at him. An open bag of crisps sits on the counter for his perusal as well. And who says I'm not a gracious host.

"Are these even safe to eat?" he asks, inspecting the olives.

I shrug. They are either from first week I moved in here or for a party that took place a month ago. Or two months ago. I've always been rubbish with dates.

Dov shrugs and pops one into his mouth. "So what are they doing in there?" he asks through a mouthful of expired food. I cringe at the sight, glance toward the other room and cringe again.

I truly love when my mornings start out this way. Really. Nothing but sunshine and unicorns everywhere you look.

Because I know you're on the edge of your seat, I'll tell you. No, my mother did not inform me that these men would be coming. And no, I have no lie rehearsed for Dov or whoever else happens to traipse through my house while they're here.

"I need a list of people who have killed their mothers and gotten away with it," I tell him. When the truth won't do distractions are a nice alternative.

He doesn't know much about me prior to my twenty-third birthday. Having a best mate who sleeps with people professionally is one thing. Having one who can transfigure a turtle into a tea cozy is another thing entirely.

He knows the bare minimum, that I'm from a well-to-do family, that my mother and I don't get along and that I more or less ran away from the pressure of responsibility.

And apparently that my mother thinks I've been rebelling for far too long.

His family life isn't much better so it isn't a subject we cover very often.

Dov understands. He nods and begins to venture through my kitchen fixtures, humming Bonnie Tyler under his breath. It's a lost cause, you will never find a kitchen more empty. But it keeps him occupied. "So currently they are doing what exactly?"

"Chintz removal which will hopefully culminate in a pagan ritual in which all Colefax and Fowler prints are gleefully thrown onto a crackling blaze."

"The suits of armour and mounted quadrupeds should be here by this afternoon, then?"

Hit the nail on the head, that. I groan and let my head fall to the countertop.

"Careful, Draco. Might get germs in your pretty, pretty hair." To accompany the threat he hovers his dusty cupboard hands over my head and wiggles his fingers. Good to know I have such mature friends.

"And your solution is to scare the away with spirit fingers?" I snarl. It comes out sharper than I mean it to. Displacement of my emotions. It's a common occurrence. Dov just chuckles, reveling in my pain and misfortune.

"Come on," he says and grabs my hand. "You need to get out of here. Let them do whatever it is they're doing. Your anal retentive arse can undo it later."

* * *

Chez Wasserstein is buzzing with energy.

It doesn't matter that London lacks any semblance of community; Dov knows everybody. After a few phone calls and a handful of emails we have a perfectly passable party on our hands. Some boy (a term I'm not using arbitrarily here) has been vying for my attention for the past hour. He looks to be about 19 years of age but he's just so cute. Dimples and perfect hair.

I-pretend-I-don't-care-but-really-I-do hair.

And I, ever the sucker for a good head of hair, give in. I give him the name of a fairly complicated cocktail, and send him on his way. I'm quite curious to see just how badly he can muck it up. He seems quite excited, so that's nice.

I wonder off to find Dov, who is currently wedged between two writhing bodies. They sway to a cadence that doesn't quite match the pop song monstrosity blaring through the speakers.

I can't imagine he wants to be disturbed. Being the spoiled brat I am, I grab at his hand anyway. He glares.

My lower lip graces him with a truly breathtaking pout.

He works very hard to ignore me.

"I'm bored," I whine.

"Go find the boy wonder, have a one off. You can use my room." Ohh, it's serious now. He desperately wants me gone, willing to barter for it.

"Why, thank you," I return sarcastically.

"Aw, look how happy you've made him." He gestures behind me and turns back to his wriggling partners. Wasn't this the man who was broken hearted not two hours ago? If only we could all have the attention spans of cocker spaniels.

But he was correct, the boy wonder is back, standing directly behind me, a glass of Guinness in hand.

Lovely.

Have I mentioned how much I hate parties? You wouldn't think it, what, with the number of party-like events I attend for work. But really. I've never been comfortable in this atmosphere. The music is always too loud and the conversation is always dreadfully predictable. People, being the truly uninspired creatures that they are, discuss two things at social gatherings. Work and relationships.

Lucky me.

Speaking of which, I take the glass from the boy, who tells me his name is James or something along those lines. He's now discussing the excitement involved in university life which is absolutely fascinating. What with the naked roommates, copious amounts of alcohol and countless sex acts and biology labs it's almost like he's describing my daily life.

I brave a sip in hopes that it will numb the pain of this conversation. And god, it's worse than I remember. Thick and syrupy and revolting, but I've always had a talent for swallowing so down it slips.

On the subject of swallowing, some people in the business refuse to swallow but I really can't see why. It only decreases the chance of disease by a fraction and once it's in there spitting won't erase the taste.

In that instance and in this, best to just take it graciously and move on.

Somehow the tot has found himself in my lap, legs slithered around my waist. We're sitting on the couch, how did we get here? I have no idea. But he's here and so am I and he's willing so I guess I am, too.

His tongue is lodged down my windpipe which is absolutely wonderful, let me tell you. Bobbing in and out like some misguided attempt at whack-a-mole.

You know that insipid phrase you see a lot in trashy romance novels, "what he lacked in experience he made up for with enthusiasm"?"

If I ever see it again I will personally see to it that the author is drawn and quartered.

Enthusiasm makes up for absolutely nothing.

But in my line of work you learn very quickly that it isn't your job to reform lousy kissers. Gentle suggestion is often your best and only option. Sometimes, though, you have to learn to hold your tongue.

Especially when he can't hold his.

I sit back and let him go at it. He'll get bored eventually. As I sit here, a sinking feeling that I've forgotten something fairly important permeates. Which really can't be good. Have I forgotten a client? I don't think so but who knows. I can't think straight with this lapping dog in my lap.

Thankfully, Lassie has detached himself from my mouth and moved to my neck. I glance around the room and wonder if Dov's fire alarms work. But that isn't it.

This is a natural disaster on a whole different level.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot it, a swift flash of blonde, a nose lost between the need to peer down at the strange substances on the floor and the desire to be stuck up in the air.

Standing quickly, throwing Jason or whatever his name was to the side, I dart around the room and find Dov. Like the man I am, I pull him away from his cohorts to use him as a shield. As mentioned earlier, he is not exactly Amazonian and I'm left quite in the open.

She spots me easily.

"Dude, who's the hot bitch in charge?" Dov says as she tears across the room.

"Danger, Dov Wasserstein," I answer honestly.

"Draco, Draco's unwashed friend," she greets. Mm, a lovely mix of ice and venom. Something taught only at the previously mentioned pureblood school, I'm pretty sure.

"Astoria."

"HBIC." Dov says this but has no idea of how right he is. Fortunately for him, he isn't incurring the hot bitch's wrath. I am.

"Let's go, Draco." She turns and makes way for the door. I turn to Dov.

"What was that?" he asks, bewildered.

"My ex fiance," I answer. He knows a bit about her but nothing of the details. I shrug and turn to follow her. "Sorry, things to see, people to do."

"I'll tell your date." And I let him have it because at this rate, I might never see him again.

Best to give parting gifts, after all.


End file.
